


The Language of Flowers

by mouriana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-13 10:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouriana/pseuds/mouriana
Summary: John finds out Molly's been getting flowers from a secret admirer and investigates.Note: I've had enough requests for more on this that I've decided to make the short story the 1st chapter of a full-size case.  Will be adding 1st draft chapters as I write them, but feel free to comment as you go!





	1. A unique discovery

“I’m sorry, John, I’m so, so sorry.”

John rocked unconsciously while Rosie slept on his shoulder and he watched Molly fumble with the keys to the morgue. She didn’t just look tired. She looked haggard. Guilt flooded through him for having asked her to watch Rosie while he was on a date, knowing she had the night off. “No, Molly, it’s completely fine. It’s the nature of the job.” 

“But you were finally getting a night out and I agreed to watch her and I made you come here to pick her up….” Her voice trailed off into muttered apologies as she got the door open and moved into the chilly room, instinctively grabbing her lab coat from the hook on the wall. 

A splash of color caught both of their attentions. In a simple glass vase on a metal exam table was a flower, a deep red gardenia. The color stood out so much against the austere background of the morgue that John was quite distracted by it. Molly, however, moved straight to the table with the body on it and immediately began unzipping the heavy body bag. 

Her behavior surprised him as much as the flower. “Molly, do you have a secret admirer?”

A sad little smile slipped across her face and she shrugged. “I think they’re from Greg.”

“Greg Lestrade?”

She nodded. “We’ve gone out a few times. He’s nice and everything, but I…I don’t know, I’m just not….” 

“Not interested?”

She shrugged again, deliberately turning her focus back to the body on the table. 

John frowned at the flower. Something about it nagged at him. “You’ve said you think ‘they’ are from Greg. There’s been more?”

“A few, here and there.”

He paused. “Are they always gardenias?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes daisies. Sometimes white heather, I think. Couple of times they were blue roses. That’s a bit funny, don’t you think? Blue roses? Can one even grow blue roses?” She laughed somewhat uncomfortably and turned back to the body on the slab. 

A brief, instinctual, responsive smile flashed across John’s face, but he was really too lost in thought, staring at the flower for another few seconds. 

He blinked, aware of the room again. “Sorry, Molly, thank you for watching Rosie for a few hours. I’ll just take her home and put her to bed, then.”

She looked up from the body and smiled at him, a somewhat apologetic smile, and nodded. He returned the nod and carried his sleeping toddler from the room. 

  


The next morning, John was sitting in his chair, trying to read the morning paper while repeatedly pulling Rosie from the bookshelves she was trying to climb at 221B, when Sherlock came out of his bedroom wrapped in a sheet. 

“Rosie , Sherlock.”

Sherlock immediately turned around, grumbling, and went back to his room, then came out a few minutes later in his bathrobe, and wandered into the kitchen to pick up the morning tea Mrs Hudson had left for him. John sighed and plucked Rosie from the bookcase again, prying a tome by Nietzsche from her tiny but tenacious grasp.

“John, you’ve cluttered my lab table with papers. If you’re asking for advice on flowers to give to—”

“Those are for you.”

“I don’t want flowers, John, they’re—”

“Not for you. The flowers are not for you, the advice is for you. Those are the specific flowers you need to send.” 

“Are you mad?!”

John pulled a book on stages of decomposition from Rosie’s hands, shoving the pictures that had been kept between the pages back into it before putting in on a high shelf. He raised Rosie to his shoulders as he walked to the edge of the kitchen. 

Sherlock was putting the sheets about flowers into the trash bin. “If you’re trying to suggest that I should send The Woman flowers, which is a ridiculous suggestion, at least suggest something more appropriate than daffodils.”

“Why wouldn’t daffodils be appropriate? They’re very pretty, many women like them—”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Because chivalry is the last thing that woman is interested in.”

“AH HA! I KNEW IT!” yelled John, causing Rosie to start, then squeal, laugh, and throw her hands up in the air. 

The haughty expression on Sherlock’s face disappeared, replaced with a flat, emotionless visage. “Really, John, I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

“No, I’m right, and I know I’m right because I can see Mary right behind you, telling me you’ve been caught, and she is always right. You DO know the language of flowers. You’re the one who has been leaving flowers for Molly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never—”

“How long has this been a thing for you? Since Sherrinford? Reichenbach? Here I thought you were lying through your teeth to save her from Eurus’ bomb, but that wasn’t true at all, was it.”

“She is my friend, John. That’s all.”

“The flowers were far too specific to not mean something. That’s what nagged at me. Gardenias? White heather? Blue roses? Daisies? Obviously some sort of code, but not one Molly was aware of. So it had to mean something to the sender, without it being necessary that the recipient understand the code. Then Mary—my projection of her, anyway—reminded me about flower language, so I looked them up. Gardenias mean secret love. White heather means protection. Blue roses mean you want someone you can’t have. I could go on, but you already know all this.”

Sherlock walked past John towards his bedroom, not looking at his as he walked past. “I am going to get dressed—” 

John barked a short, bitter laugh. 

“Do you think you’re protecting Molly? By keeping your distance and letting her die a little more each day?”

Sherlock stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Romantic entanglements, while satisfying for other—”

“STOP THE CHARADE, Sherlock! This isn’t just about you protecting yourself! How can you be so blind to the pain she’s in? The toll this is taking on her?”

The detective sighed, paused, then muttered softly, “I’m not.”

“Then  _why_ do you keep doing this?”

Sherlock’s hands balled up into fists, held there for a long moment, then released. “I told you how Moriarty threatened everyone he thought I cared about to induce me to throw myself from Bart’s rooftop. He had guns on you, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. But not Molly. My treatment of Molly kept her off that list.”

“You think you’re protecting her?”

Sherlock spun to face his friend. “I  **know** I’m protecting her!”

John couldn’t suppress the sarcasm. “Oh yes, that worked  _so_ well with Eurus.”

Grimacing, Sherlock growled. “Eurus was unique. No one else could have seen—”

“I did.”

“You’re not a threat.”

“Does it matter? She will have threats from her association with you whether you keep your distance from her or not. So the question becomes, will you continue to torture her until those threats take her, or will you stop some of her pain now?” 

Sherlock’s voice was small. “She’s dating Greg. He’s a good man. He’ll take care of her.”

“But she loves  _you,_ not him, you idiot.”

His frown deepened, but Sherlock’s expression was showing more pain than anger, his Adam’s apple bouncing as he swallowed hard. “When Eurus killed Victor, I shut down. I cut out memories of  _two entire people_ , including my own  _sister,_ because of it. I faked my death to protect my friends, I killed Magnussen for you and Mary. And don’t you for a moment assume I was indifferent to Mary’s death or what it did to you. I seem to recall you even saying,  _It will be gone before you know it._ I know am an utter cock and an imbecile when it comes to the human heart, but I know this much: I cannot bear that. The reason I don’t do romantic entanglements is simply that I  _can’t_ .” 

There was a moment of silence that was quickly filled by Rosie starting to cry. 

John Watson took his daughter from his shoulders, held her close, and began to rock gently, soothing her as best he could while trying to process everything he just heard. 

“So, Irene Adler—?”

“I can’t say I’m not attracted. Let people know what they will about that; she can take care of herself.”

“You have more depth than I gave you credit for.”

Sherlock swallowed hard again and looked away. 

Rosie’s fussing slid into rhythmic, muttered self-soothing as she nuzzled against her father’s shoulder and began sucking on her fingers. Sherlock blinked, then turned towards his bedroom again.

“Sherlock, it’s not a weakness.”

“Of course it is.”

“Okay, maybe, but it’s worth it.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. 

“What I said on your birthday?” called John, “It applies doubly now.”

“Which part?”

“The part where you are a moron.” 

John walked to the rubbish bin and pulled two sheets out, checked them, and slid them under Sherlock’s door.

“Here you go. Your next delivery. Which you should do in person.”

There was the faint sound of papers being picked up, then a muttered, “Protea and leaf rose.” A grunt. “Change, courage, and hope.”

John checked his daughter, who was now nearly asleep. “You should make that rose a deep red. To show regret for what an utter cock you’ve been.”

“Duly noted.”


	2. A distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John tries to follow up on his discovery, a new and baffling case comes to the doorstep of 221B.

“Have you sent more flowers yet?”

“Nope.” Sherlock didn’t look up from the chemistry book he was reading. 

Mrs Hudson had taken Rosie out clothes shopping—said something about the child looking homeless and laughed for seven full minutes when John mentioned he liked the outfit he had picked for his daughter that morning—so John decided it was a good time to visit his best friend.

“Valentine’s day is—”

“I eschew romantic entanglements under the best of circumstances. A holiday centred around a crude rendition of upside-down testicles given the euphemism of ‘heart’ and somehow ascribed an association with romance does not make the prospect more attractive.”

John glared at his friend for a long moment. “You chose to keep that piece of information on your hard drive, but not the basics of the solar system?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock slammed the book shut, put it on the arm of his chair, and popped to his feet. His steps towards the mantel were more even tempered, but he had already revealed his agitation. He gave a token glance at the paper stabbed onto the mantelpiece before closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and speaking in falsely subdued tones.

“We have known each other for eight years now, John. I have told you my position on the subject multiple times, and you have shown remarkable restraint considering your personal convictions of the ability of relationships to ‘complete me as a human being.’ But your incessant prattling on the subject since you discovered the flowers is becoming irksome.”

Brows dug down, pushing the doctor’s eyes to slits. “This is the first I’ve mentioned it in five weeks.”

“Don’t you have a child to attend to?”

“Mrs H has got her. This has been bothering you, hasn’t it.”

Sherlock spun to face his former roommate and threw his hands wide. “IT HASN’T BEEN BOTHERING ME!”

John’s eyes narrowed again, but before anything else could be said, the bell rang. 

“Finally,” said Sherlock, stepping to the door in three strides and throwing it open so powerfully that the woman on the other side gave a start.

She blinked at Holmes and clutched her handbag in front of her. She was uncommonly beautiful, John thought. Long, dark hair—though streaked with grey and pulled up in a bun—and a nice, conservative suit. She said softly with an accent John did not recognise, “Mister Holmes?”

Holmes stepped back and swung his arm towards the chair set out for clients. “Please, Ms Pérez, come in and tell me the details of your case to save me from my well-intentioned friend.”

She stared at him a moment then slipped past—John thought she leaned away from the detective slightly—and sat obediently in the chair, clutching her handbag in her lap. 

Sherlock didn’t even give her a chance to ask her initial question. “There aren’t many Peruvian graduate chemists that work for one of London’s top perfumeries, Ms Pérez. Please, tell me your tale.” He smiled a bit, almost affably, as he sat in his armchair. 

She took a small, shuddering breath. “My son has been murdered, Mr Holmes. But not in a way that the police will believe.”

John suppressed a smile at the twitch of his friend’s eyebrow. This woman knew how to intrigue Sherlock from the start. 

“Go on.”

Her hands were trembling as she opened her handbag and pulled out a newspaper clipping. “He was young and strong and healthy until the cancer. That took him out in only three weeks. The doctors said that is the way of pancreatic cancer. That it was natural,” she said as she handed over the clipping. “But I know it was not natural.”

After a cursory glance at the paper, Sherlock handed it back. “I am sorry for your loss, Ms Pérez, but I fear the doctors, _in this case_ , are correct.”

John knew the emphasis was intended for him, but he chose to ignore it.

“No, it _was_ murder, Mr Holmes. I know it was. My employer killed him.”

John had been pleased by his best friend’s increased patience and friendliness since the incident with his sister, but he could tell this conversation was testing the limits. Sherlock stood powerfully from his chair, ready to dismiss the supplicant, when she desperately pulled a scrap of paper from her handbag and handed it to him.

When Sherlock looked at the paper, his entire body went on alert. He sat back in his chair, but on the edge, leaning towards the client, though focused on the paper intensely. 

“Where did you get this?”

John couldn’t fully see what was on the paper, but he could see enough to recognise the combination of geometric lines and letters that symbolised a molecular formula. 

“I saw it on a computer screen in Mr Ferguson’s—that is, Jack Ferguson, my employer—office while I was delivering a sample to him. He was indisposed for the moment, so I was wandering around the office and caught a glimpse of it. It seemed odd, not at all olfactory in nature, so I drew closer to examine it more thoroughly when he returned. He was very angry, and immediately shut off the screen and sent me from the room. I have something of an eidetic memory, so I wrote down what I had seen the moment I could. 

“My son was diagnosed a month later, Mr Holmes. He died a little more than a fortnight after that. It seemed too strong a coincidence, and I had heard you were a graduate chemist, so I thought—”

Sherlock handed John the paper as he looked up at the client. “What type of pancreatic cancer did your son die of?”

“Adenosarcoma.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers together in front of his face, but only for a moment. “You are right, Ms Pérez, something is not natural. I will take your case. In the meantime, I advise you to distance yourself from Mr Ferguson and any packages or objects that may show up at your home from him or any unknown source.”

She nodded. No smile, no surprise, no protest. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.” 

She stood, clutched her handbag to her chest, and left. 

John looked again at the paper, then up at Sherlock, who was looking up something on his phone, then cried out with an exclamation he reserved for discovering the most diabolical of crimes. John handed the paper back. 

“It seems similar to some of the transdermal delivery agents found in analgesic patches, but I can’t discern what the lines are at the side. They aren’t labelled.”

“She wasn’t able to complete her examination of the image. We’ll have to get access to it ourselves. But this, I believe, is key.”

Sherlock handed his phone to John. The screen held an obituary for one Robert Ferguson, who had died four years before of pancreatic adenocarcinoma. Survived by his son, Jack.

John handed the phone back. 

“Please don’t give me that look, but I fail to grasp the connection, despite the coincidence. Cancer is not contagious.” 

Sherlock took the paper back, folding it and slipping it into his breast pocket. 

“Perhaps it _wasn’t.”_

  


  



End file.
